


Just a Trim

by LadyProto



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Hair cut, Orphans, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trust Issues, character backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:20:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You learn a lot about a person when you’re holding scissors to their skull</p><p>[No pairing, no death, no sex. Just hurt and comfort and character backstory]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Trim

“You do it. That’s an order.” Washington pushed a pair of sharpened scissors towards Tucker – blade first and with too much enthusiasm.

Tucker arched away from the blade, pushing the scissors back towards Washington with the palm of his hand. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m Black. I have dreads. My hair doesn’t do what ever the fuck that is.” Tucker jerked his head towards the other room in indication of the situation at hand.

Glancing around the corner, the two could see Caboose sitting in a lone wooden chair in the center of one of Blue base’s concrete room. He crossed his legs quietly in the chair and swayed side to side gently. He was disheveled, to put it lightly, or “a damn poor excuse for a soldier” as Sarge had put it. Caboose’s hair stuck up as stiffly and matted as straw, errand hair clumping together in uncombed clutter. Someone had once attempted to tame it fuzzy mess of a poof at one point, but the lack of weight and uneven length made it jut out like a neglected paint brush.

If Caboose knew the other two men were talking about him, he didn’t react. He flopped his hands against this knees and continued swaying lightly. Tucker and Washington glanced away when Caboose started pondering the texture of his own tongue.

“He’s out of regulation” Wash reminded, recentering his attention to Tucker. They were just out of sight from Caboose, not to hide but to not shake the child-like man out of complacency. 

“Yeah, but nobody fucking cares. We’re -what did you call us? ” Tucker asked hypothetically, making a show of being overly animated and scratching his chin. “Oh yeah “fake-army heroes.” Tucker rolled his glowing eyes at the suggestion. “Fake heroes that can kick your ass!” Tucker poked Washington hard in the chest with his free hand, and offered the scissors up with a smile. “Tag, you’re It.”

“They might not care. But I do.” Washington sighed deeply, rubbing the knotted area between his eyebrows in frustration. Did he actually just say that out loud? “He looks like a puppy with the mange. Can’t we get that light red -”

“Dude it’s fucking pink”

“Pink. Jesus Christ. Can’t we get the pink guy over here? I’m sure if I don’t ask and he doesn’t tell-”

Tucker crinkled his nose, “Sick dude. don’t even want to know where you were going to that joke,”

The chair in the other room scraped across the floor, and the two men stalled their bickering to steal another glance at Caboose. He had pulled his long, loose sleeves over this wrists, and was smacking some invisible spot in the air with his sleeves. The chair groaned in protest of such a large man with such a childish mind. Whatever Caboose thought he was doing, it was keeping him entertained.

Washington turned back, leaning against the wall of the dark hallway. “Why did you even keep him?” He asked flatly.

“Keep him?”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you put him out of his misery?"

“Man, that’s cruel.” Tucker’s face pulled into a genuine frown. It looked like he had never considered the situation before. His emotive gesturing shut down abruptly, and he regarded Washington cooly, with tight lipped judgment.

“Then take him out of the sim army and send him back home. He’s slowing everyone down,”  
Tucker locked eyes with Washington, his arms crossed in defiance. “You crossed a line, man. I don’t know how it worked with your Freelancer people, but we don’t kill our teammates when they become a burden.”

Washington let that stinging comment dance on his skin, looking away from Tucker and resting his head on the cool concrete wall. He non-verbally admitted his defeat as he watched Caboose in the other room. Caboose chewed on the textured collar of his shirt, staring at the grey concrete wall.

Tucker continued “He trusts you. He thinks you two have stuff in common because of all that shit getting knocked around in your head.”

Wash grimaced, rounding his shoulder to deflect an invisible blow. “Don’t say it like that,”

“Then don’t threaten to kill my friend,” Tucker countered.

Washington nodded, silently acknowledging his stupidity. He hadn’t meant it as a threat, at least that what he told himself. It was a genuine question. Why was Caboose so worth it? Callous questioning maybe, but not a threat. “I’ll get the clippers from Sarge. I’m just going to shave it. Maybe it’ll be easier on us both.”

“Good luck with that.,” Tucker frowned again. His actions were not as pronounced anymore but they were returning, still his making his caution towards Washington and Caboose apparent. “Go near that man with clippers and you’ll be trying to console a 6 and a half feet tall man-child”.

Washington raised an eyebrow at the thought. “He’s afraid of clippers?” Caboose could fall in love with a tank, but couldn’t handle hair clippers. 

“Not exactly. He’d always beg Church to not shave his head. Maybe it’s the memory of a bad haircut. Most of the stuff he says doesn’t always make sense,”

“So nothing new.” Washington gave a resigned sigh, “Okay if I’m going in I’m going need some Intel. I have the tools I need I just-”

“Tools? It’s a comb and a pair of scissors. And what Intel? It’s just Caboose.” Tucker’s voice went into a high pitch at the end of his words, annoyance clear. 

“You said he was afraid of clippers. What else you know about the target. Intel?”

“Intelligence? Caboose? Non-existent”. 

“No, like information.” Washington reached for a question he couldn’t figure out how to ask. The poorly groomed Caboose wasn’t a small kid. Caboose was rivaled in size only by Maine, and controlling Maine during his mental slippage had been… Rough. Hell, Wash’s own mental instability as a child had been difficult for his mother to handle. Could anyone really deal with a temper tantrum from a near giant with a child’s mentality?

“He’s blonde and like, over 6 and a half feet tall. He’s like a weird mutated golden retriever that needs grooming.”

“Is he combative?” Washington finally asked, searching Tucker’s eyes for understanding of the implication.

“Not all big guys are dangerous.” Tucker declared. He didn’t clarify how he knew Washington’s fear nor did he press for more information “Mostly he just tells stories that don’t make sense,”

“Yeah, we covered that.” Washington frowned, taking a deep breath to steady himself before verbally affirming what Tucker already knew “Okay, here, I’ll do it.”  Washington stepped quietly away from Tucker, but Tucker didn’t move. Wash could still feel Tucker’s intense, glowing stare analyzing the situation for any indication of hostility. 

“You’re not going to hurt him,” Tucker stated.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Washington confirmed as he entered Caboose’s room.Caboose seemed unshaken, but he watched Washington with passive curiosity.

“Hey, uh, Caboose?” Washington approached gently, holding the comb and scissors out like he was displaying weapons for a surrender. “I’m going to cut your hair.”

“Hello, Agent Washington.” Caboose spoke in his normal, halting lisp. Maybe it was from how he rolled his tongue around in his mouth. Or maybe he had really been so damaged that his mouth’s motor functions had deteriorated. “Church normally does that for me- oh” Caboose’s bright blue eyes go blank for a moment, and Washington recognizes his own post-war expression in the black, matte void. 

“I can do it for you though,” Washington tried to call Caboose back to reality. 

Caboose eyes changed again – now wide and tearful. He was disturbingly easy to read - more of a child or puppy than a soldier. Had he really been normal at some point? And what was normal at Blood Gulch? Maybe that just meant Caboose slept fully clothed and didn’t end up dead every few weeks. 

“Just until Church gets back,” Washington cursed himself for giving in and lying. Caboose deserved to know the truth, but did he deserve to know the pain that came with it? Denial was a powerful thing. Fighting the inevitable concept of death is what lead them to where they were now.

“Okay just until he gets back. Then I want Church,” Caboose smiled, and the genuineness of it was devastating .

Washington nodded slowly, unsure of how or why had just lied to Caboose that way. It seemed out of character for him, but so was cutting hair. So was most the things he’s done the past six months. Life was a headache.

Caboose seemed to forget the smile on his face, and he looked up at Washington expectantly. Caboose seemed like a good kid. He was cute too: large and lean with bright blue eyes. Caboose had to have been barely 18 when he joined the army, as his face was soft and stubble free. He was scarred a bit, but who wasn’t? One noticeable ridged scar followed the bridge of Caboose’s nose, but it was soft and faded. Someone had been taking care of him. 

Church really had had a guilt complex towards Caboose.

“Let’s see the damage,” Washington ordered walking around to Caboose’s back. 

Caboose bows his head obediently, giving the other man full access to his head and neck. Washington’s breath picked up instinctively in fearful excitement. The last time someone had their bare neck to the Freelancer it was because they had been marked as a hit.  
Washington’s fingers tingled as his grip on the scissor handles tighten. Last time it had been a gun to the back of the head, execution style. It could be scissors this time.

 _No. No. No. You aren’t here for that._ He reminded himself. It was old instinct. It was old training and mental illness from a long time ago. That wasn’t him. He counted his breaths, elongating exhalations until his heart slowed.  
He brought his free hand up to Caboose’s crown, attempting to shake out the blonde mop of hair with bare finger tips, but the netted strands trapped Washington's hands like spiderwebs. They were going to here awhile. 

Washington brought the scissors upward, ready to cut the large obvious mat at the base of Caboose’s neck. He had no intention of hurting Caboose, but still he could imagine what would happen. He wouldn’t do it, he repeated in his head, trying to push that reminder above the chattering intrusive thoughts. 

He could see it as clearly as he could see Caboose’s thick pulsating veins just below the skin surface. Would Caboose even need to be distracted in order to be killed? A flick of the wrist and Washington could start the process. How long could he bleed out before someone outside noticed? Would Caboose even know to scream?

 _No, no don’t._ Washington hadn’t spoken a word externally for a while, and instead gripped the scissors with open blades next to the other man’s occipital ridge. He told himself he didn’t want to – but the intrusive, obsessive thoughts kept coming.  He could do it clean and quick, a simple slice. But cleaving an artery would give Doc time to run in to save him. Carving down into his spinal cord would be much easier. Washington knew he had the upper body strength, he could dislocate his Cervical Vertebrae by–

Washington sucked and chewed on his bottom lip, like a baby tries to self sooth with a pacifier. The skin peeled away bloody and raw. He flicked it off with his tongue.

Washington admitted defeat, putting the scissors in his pocket, blade down so that it would hurt him and not Caboose . He decided to start easily and picked up the comb “Hey, I’m going to have to comb your hair first. It’s matted.” 

“Okay!” 

Washington breathed easier with the scissors out of his hands. He took one matted section at time, top to bottom, running the comb through it was gently as possible. His hair was like straw in every sense of the comparison. It was thick, rough, and dull yellow, and it laid in bundles over Caboose’s face. Sometimes the individual hairs released easily, other times it took breaking the strands to get rid of the knots.

Caboose sat in silence mostly, and Washington didn’t bother to speak. The sound of the comb teeth raking through tangles and the whirr of a distant generator produced a calming, repetitive white noise that lulled the both of them into passivity.

Washington found a particular sticky and roughly textured mat. “Hey, Caboose, this might hurt.” Washington pulled the comb through, and a bunch of hair released with a pop of strands breaking free from their follicles. Caboose whimpered in response, leaning his head back on Washington’s chest, rolling side to side. 

Wash tensed at the contact, deftly pulling his hands up and away lest his reflex get the better of him and one of the two men end up hurt or dead.  
Caboose never noticed, and kept his head back on Washington’s chest. Neither man moved. 

“Caboose this is way, way harder for me than it is for you” Washington assured. The thoughts didn’t stay as long this time, and he credited the distraction of having to use his hands to gently place Caboose’s head right side up.

“People tell me that all the time,”

Washington frowned but didn't question. What does that even mean? “It would have been so much either to just shave it and let it grow back in…”

Caboose whimpered again. “I do not like my hair shaved.” He declared 

“Yeah, your buddy out there told me. Didn’t say why though.” Washington paused expecting Caboose to continue the conversation. Caboose stayed silent, obviously ignorant on the expected flow of interactions. Washington pressed on, even if it was for his own distraction. “So why don’t like you like your hair shaved.?”

“My sisters had their head shaved and they did not like it."

Sisters? Caboose seemed so far removed from reality it was hard to image him having any family. He was more of an abstract concept at this point, a poster child for brain damage and emotional dependency. Washington had never bothered to consider the Caboose that Had Been – the one without brain damage. “So if they had short hair were they tomboys?”

“No. They were girls. And none of them were named Tom.”

“That’s not-”

“Is your name Tom?” Caboose’s voice slurred haltingly. He was still stuck on the subject. 

“No, my name is David,” Washington offered.

Caboose’s head bobbed happily. He was probably smiling again. “Hi, David, my name is Michael.”

“Uh, Hi Michael.

“Hello”

Washington stopped his banter, realizing they were just going to get into a dialogue loop. He picked up the scissors again, letting his mental state stabilize before attempting to go further. He took a brushed lock, and tried to trim it to an even length. With the tangle gone and weight lessened it twisted into a small curl at the nape of Caboose’s neck. It looks like North’s and South’s hair from long ago. Or North’s anyways. South had been aggressive with a straight iron. 

“You know, I have sisters,” Washington offered. There had been four children in the family at one time, but only God knew how many were still alive. Washington had been the only boy, and his initial aggression had been considered just being a rough and tumble boy in a world of fashion dolls and tutus.

“We’re they as mean and scary as Carolina?”

“No, not really. We could get into some pretty rough fights though,” 

“I could not hurt my sisters.” Caboose declared. 

“Wish I could have said that,” Washington muttered, bitterly. Washington’s mother had actually sought help for how violently he could lash out at the family. The one time his sisters had tried to brush and style his hair, things didn’t end as peacefully as it was going with Washington and Caboose now. There has been several pig tails ripped out in handfuls and a brush thrown against a mirror so hard that the glass shattered. He’d never been able to use the active voice for those statements. Denial was a powerful thing. “I have three sisters. Two older and one younger.”

 

“I have seventeen sisters,” Caboose held up all 10 fingers as though that some how related to the conversation at hand

“Seventeen?” Was it really wise to question the other man’s statement? Caboose seemed to speak with some clarity at certain times, and then there were moments like this “With you, That’s 18 kids.”

“You are good at math, David, A+” the words would have sounded sarcastic from any other person. Washington wasn’t sure Caboose had the ability to be sarcastic.

“I’m just amazed. Your parents must have been like rabbits”

“There were not rabbits.”

“Heh,” Wash closed his eyes, stopping his scissors to chuckle internally. That was a conversation he wasn’t going to have. He couldn’t wait to tag Tucker as “it” for that little talk.

“I had three mothers. I’m better than Donut”

“Uh-huh, sure, Buddy, what ever you say.” Washington chuckled in response. The hair cutting fiasco was almost over, and Washington was going to let Caboose tell as many wild stories as he needed to in order to sit still. Having an uneventful grooming session was good, being able to shove a positive grooming session into Tucker’s face would be awesome 

“They were Nuns.”

Something in Washington’s head clicked, as he processed the rapidly piling evidence. A large group of children with forcibly shaved heads being raised by three unmarried women in a communal home? That was an orphanage

Caboose was an orphan.

“Where are you from again?” Wash treaded the situation carefully, afraid to explicitly ask the question triggering question. Where is your family? Do you know? Do you have family?

“The moon. Tranquility”

“Uh huh…. ” He mentally ticked off the lists of places that would have been ravaged by war on the moon. Orphanages had been rare years ago but as the war devastated more and more families, more group homes popped up by necessity. Some were better funded than others, some were literal abuse mills. None were happy.

Which one did Michael Caboose end up at?

Washington’s brain quickened as he mentally zoomed in to an imaginary Young Caboose, standing in line with other children as they were sorted into group homes. Their little worlds would have already been decimated. How many of them had watched their parents die? How many of them has almost died themselves? 

Had Caboose?

And when they had arrived at some foreign looming building, they had to get their heads shaved, even if it was barely days after the most traumatic experience of their short lives. Lice would have been a insurmountable plague with that many children. Did Young Michael go first? Did he cry? He had stated earlier that his aversion to hair clippers was because of his sisters’ pain and not his own. How many times did Young Caboose have to comfort his crying sisters, telling them they were still pretty and that he loved them as he pulled them into his strong bear hugs? 

Poor education, poorer eye contact, abandonment issues, and an overwhelming desire to be loved –  
it all made sense

This is why Caboose held on to people so tightly. This is why he couldn’t accept death. People aged out of care systems everyday, and Caboose had probably seen dozens of children come and go during his time. Aging out of the system also explained why Caboose joined the military so young. Who in a war-torn city could afford to offer assistance to such a large man with a larger appetite?

Washington cut the last strand, and placed the scissors blade-side down in his pocket again. Caboose’s hair had loosened up with every trim, revealing wavy hair that whisked up into curls at the ends. He looked less like a neglected rag doll now. Washington ran gentle fingers through Caboose’s hair to fluff it up again. His hands glided easily this time. “Caboose, you are a braver man than me,” 

Caboose tilted his head back on Washington’s chest, all smiles and bright blue eyes. He indicated his new hair cut when he spoke. “Did I do good?”

“You did great, buddy,”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a conversation where I asked my friend why Caboose always mentioned Carolina's hair.
> 
> Check out my tumblr!  
> http://yourscientistfriend.tumblr.com


End file.
